


Promises You Keep

by theyreburningthewhales



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Post AC1, Swearing, They use lots of modern language, but i'm not super comfortable writing romances, could be slash if you squint, eagle vision - Freeform, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:03:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18413993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyreburningthewhales/pseuds/theyreburningthewhales
Summary: It had been three days, and Altair hadn’t returned. He’d left his traveling pack and clothes in a dirty heap where he thought Malik wouldn’t notice, and the fact that he hadn’t come back for them could mean a few things.I have never tried my hand at writing fic before, but I recently replayed the first AC game and this idea wouldn't leave my head, so here. Might be a little OOC, but I've never written these characters before, so.





	Promises You Keep

The sun was going down.

Normally, this was a pretty innocuous event. It was not here nor there for an Assassin, as they were difficult to see against white stone in a glaring sun, and even harder to see at night. It shouldn’t mean anything, and it definitely it shouldn’t be cause to fret. He was a grown man, and he did not _fret._

Malik simply had a… dilemma. Yes, that was it.

He shifted on his stool, attempting to focus on the messages he was drafting to Masyaf and the other Dais in Acre and Damascus and further still. Every time he dipped his quill into his ink, held it to the parchment, and then became lost in thought until the ink had long dried. He then had to wet it once more, and this cycle repeated several times before he pushed himself away from his counter with a huff. He wandered past a quietly burbling fountain until he stopped, mindlessly, in the doorway to the small courtyard, lined with plush carpets and soft pillows for tired Assassins to drop into and rest in safety.

 

 * * *

 

_“Dai,” came a quiet call from the doorway, and Malik startled, whipping around to see Altair leaning against his counter with arms crossed and the tiniest of smirks on his face. “Safety and peace, Malik.”_

_“By the creed, Altair, I swear-“ Malik began to threaten, holding up his good arm to point at him._

_“Don’t mind me.” The newly appointed mentor interrupted, “I just had some research to do before I headed out again. Of course, I would check in with the Dai before I would begin my mission.”_

_There was a long pause, during which both men began to feel the familiar slight discomfort. It had lessened over time, and especially after the coup, but there was still a lot between them that would take time to scab and scar over, even underneath this new tentative friendship._

_He shifted from foot to foot for a second more. “You have business here?”_

_“A small matter only, but it could escalate. I’ve ordered all of the masters and higher-ranking Assassins to stay at Masyaf and make sure it is defended while the village is still recovering.”_

_“Why would_ you _not stay? You’re the mentor.”_

 _Altair shrugged, and Malik almost laughed out loud._ Of course. _“You got sick of all the boring administrative work, didn’t you?”_

_Altair leveled him with a glare, but after a minute it smoothed over and he shrugged a shoulder again. For some reason, this pissed Malik off a bit. It was a far cry from the open hostility that had once seemed to vibrate through the air between them like a struck cord, but now it seemed it veered the other way. Towards everyone else, Altair was the same imperious, demanding, bossy and hot-tempered man he’d always been, only now with a lot more regard for his brothers, which had made all the difference. But towards Malik?_

_It was weird, but he was almost_ meek. _Every time Malik tried to get a rise out of him, even just to break some of the ice, Altair’s jaw would tighten and his hands would flex minutely, like he was preparing for a fight, and then he would just kind of… deflate. It was driving Malik insane. There was a lot that Altair would never make up for, but he couldn’t seem to put it behind him, which was ironic and just plain unfair._

_If anyone should be holding onto anything, it should be Malik. If he could move on, Altair damn sure could too._

_Feeling hot with annoyance, but knowing it would be pointless to take it out on Altair, he cleared his throat, reaching for one of his bookshelves. “What do you need to know?_

 

 * * *

 

It had been three days, and Altair hadn’t returned. He’d left his traveling pack and clothes in a dirty heap where he thought Malik wouldn’t notice, and the fact that he hadn’t come back for them could mean a few things.

Perhaps Altair had simply left the city without them. This was doubtful, since Masyaf was quite a distance away, and he would never make the trip without food and water. He knew this as well, so he wouldn’t have left without returning for them or, at the very least, coming onto some money to purchase new supplies. Malik didn't think Altair wanted to avoid him _that_ badly, so he crossed that off the list of possibilities too. He'd also sent word to the stables on the outskirts of the city. His horse was still there, and all the others were accounted for as well, so he hadn't stolen one, either.

It also wasn’t uncommon for Assassins to only check in every few days or so, often getting caught up with their work and resting wherever they could find a safe, undisturbed space. Sometimes infiltration lasted a few days, staked out on a rooftop waiting to spot a flaw in guard shifts or in servant integrity.

As with the past evenings, Malik stared up at the open grate above his head for a long moment. It was getting late, and it was time to lock up before the night fell completely. It wouldn’t do for some wandering archer to come crashing down from the ceiling with a misplaced step made in the dark. But if Altair came back after he’d locked it, he could be stuck outside in the elements, probably tired and hungry or maybe even injured, as unlikely as that was. He’d had a few of the novices keep watch the past few nights for his return, just to keep the gate open, but most of them were out on business of their own and wouldn’t return yet. It was just him alone at the bureau for the next two days at least.

Heaving a great sigh, he resigned himself to wait another half hour. If Altair didn’t show up by then, he could cut his way through the grate for all he cared. Turning back to return to his work, he let his mind wander.

 

***

 

_“Malik… wake up.”_

_He woke with a start, body locking up in anxiety as he cast about his dark bedroom to the figure standing at the foot of his bed. His anxiety ratcheted up another notch at the unexpected presence before he realized who it was._

_“Altair! What in the name the mentor’s crooked-“_

_“Shhh!” A 12-year-old Altair lunged forward to cover his mouth. “If Rauf finds us awake, we’ll be stuck mucking out the stables again!”_

_Malik frowned at the reminder, remembering this as the result of the last little scrap he and Altair had gotten into. He was also resisting the urge to bite his hand like a child. He pushed the younger boy away with arms not yet large enough to wear a hidden blade, but lined with lean muscle, like all of the other journeymen of his age. “Then why get out of bed in the first place?” He snapped, but quieter, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed to go light a lamp._

_When the small flame flickered to life, Malik got the first close up look at Altair he’d had in months. He was thin, wiry, and he looked almost feral, like a starved, cornered thing. His eyes were bruised purple from lack of sleep and there was a smudge of dirt across the bridge of his nose. There was a fine film of sand on his hands and under his fingernails.“Did you go to bed like this?”_

_“I haven’t gone to bed yet at all. Listen,” he insisted, growing serious, “I don’t have a mirror.”_

_“…alright?” Malik prompted him, but Altair fidgeted, looking for all the world like a nervous wreck, not meeting his eyes. “What do you want, birdbrain? I don’t have one, either.”_

_Altair glanced around, eyes darting to corners and seemingly staring into blank walls, before he blinked and turned back to him. “I’m g- I am going to do something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.”_

_“What?” The stuttering of his speech was making Malik want to call for help, as had that last little declaration._

_“I have to do something, I need… I have to know this. What it looks like, because I can't tell when I'm-” He rubbed a hand over his face, stressed, spreading more dirt on his head and through his cropped hair. “Malik, promise.”_

_“I’m not your friend, Altair. I don’t have to do anything.” He sneered. He’d never cared for the pompous little brat anyway, and some dark mean part of him felt a little vindicated seeing the normally untouchable Altair so ruffled._

_“Malik.”_

_Altair seemed present in his own head for the first time since he’d shown up, and he was just so deadly serious that Malik just stared at him, having no words to say. After a second, he got impatient, and demanded, “Look, why didn’t you just go to-“_

_But he froze, because who was there?_

_It had been three months, but watching his father’s public death seemed to have taken a toll. And, if the rumors were to be believed, his best friend’s father Ahmad had stolen into his room the very next evening to end his own life in repentance for Umar’s own unnecessary death.  Abbas wouldn’t want to speak with him either, and Malik realized with a start that, well, the closest thing Altair had to_ anything _was a rival, so that left him._

_With Altair standing at the foot of his bed, wringing his hands and clenching his fists in agitation, Malik had a sudden vision of what Abbas’s father must have looked like, still filthy from the Templar’s rough handling, apologies spewing from his mouth even as he drew his hidden blade across his own throat._

_An emotion constricted his chest, but he couldn’t identify it and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He stuffed it down with annoyance so he wouldn’t have to examine it too closely, and asked instead through clenched teeth, “Altair,_ what do you want? _”_

_“You won’t tell anyone, not even Al Mualim, even if you decide you hate me and want me to die the most horrific way possible, I need you to promise me that you won’t tell a single person and just kill me yourself.”_

_That was dramatic. “You’re scaring me,” Malik admitted. "You're acting like a total lunatic. Can you hear yourself, right now?"_

_Altair threw up his hands before gritting out, "What do you want me to do, Malik? I can't ask the mentor and I can't ask my father because he's_ dead.  _Who do you want me to ask? I need help, you fucker. Promise me!"_

_He was getting a little too loud, so nervously Malik placated, "alright, yes, I promise.” When Altair looked unsatisfied, he said, “on my life, I swear. What is it?”_

_Finally, Altair leaned forward. “I am going to do something,” he said. “I want you to look at my eyes and tell… tell me what they look like.”_

_“Have you cracked?” He glowered. “Fine, fine. Do whatever you’re going to do so I can go back to sleep.”_

_Altair took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and opened them. At first, there was nothing. Then-_

 

_* * *_

 

He was startled out of his trip into memory by the rattling of the roof gate. Instantly alert, he reached for his blade and stalked forward, quiet as a whisper, peering around the edge of the doorframe into the courtyard.

 _Ah. Finally._ He straightened up, his hand going slack on the hilt of his blade, when a familiar silhouette appeared on the roof, over the lip of the entrance. Malik turned away for a moment to grab a lantern, as the darkness had descended in full while he had been stuck in his own head, and when he turned back around, the light fell upon Altair’s form as he was lowering himself into the room.

“You’ve returned,” he said, just loudly enough for him to hear, holding the lantern up to illuminate the master assassin.

But instead of the smirk and quip he’d been expecting, he caught a flash of shiny red before Altair turned his head toward the source of his voice and flinched violently as the light hit his face. His grip on the grate slackened and escaped him, sending him tumbling into the room bonelessly. He landed on his feet, but the momentum of the drop carried him to his knees, which both hit the floor with a painful sounding crack.

Altair didn’t make a sound, but stayed very still in that position, almost like the evening prayers they had observed some of the worshiping population do. His head was turned away, and his body drawn tight as a bowstring.

“Gods above, Altair!” He dropped the lantern and moved forward, dropping beside him to make sure he was alright. In the faint light, he could see slick, shiny blood on his hands and robe, as well as older blood on his hood and face. “Where are you injured? Hey, novice! Are you in there? Stay awake!”

His insistence earned him another slight recoil from the younger man, but otherwise he just shook his head, wincing. This was not good. If Altair was covered with blood, it only meant that either he was badly wounded, or he had been in a fight bad enough that he didn’t have the luxury of avoiding arterial sprays. Malik knew from experience that Altair hated getting hurt. He found it humiliating, and he almost never took a hit, so when it actually happened he had a bad tendency to try to shrug it off and try to jump back into the fight. He didn’t like being slowed down, but he never seemed to learn that it only slowed him down _more_ in the future when the wound got worse or infected.

As Dai, he’d taken some training in healing. It was important, as the bureau was often the first place that assassins would come for safety after a mission went wrong, and he ended up patching up minor cuts and lacerations more often than he would have liked. He knew how to stabilize someone long enough to get them to a real doctor. The issue here was that none of his injuries looked bad enough to account for this behavior, even though Altair was coated in blood, and trembling, now that he was close enough to notice. “Altair, I can’t help you unless you tell me where you are injured. Altair? Mentor!”

That got his attention a little better. Altair turned his head slightly toward him, and Malik could see his face scrunched up in pain, eyes squeezed shut tightly enough to hurt. There was a cut on his forehead bleeding freely into his eyes, and he was favoring his left side, where another dark patch was now visible, slowly spreading, staining his perfect white robe crimson.

Malik doubted the fabric was salvageable at this point.

“…snuff the light, please.” His voice was strained and scratchy from disuse.

Wow, a “please.” He hadn’t gotten one of those earnestly from Altair in a long time. “I need it to see where you are hurt." Malik tried reasoning. "Not all of us can see in the dark."

“I said _turn it off_ , bastard!” came a snarl, which seemed to aggravate whatever was ailing him, because he drew inward even tighter and pressed his palms into his eyes with a small gasp.

Taken aback, he did as he was asked. The room fell into near absolute darkness, lit only by the half moon in the steadily darkening sky. He hadn’t gotten vitriol from Altair in some time, either. He always seemed nervous or ashamed to lose his temper with him after Solomon's Temple.

“Altair…” Malik slowly returned to his side, making enough sound so as not to startle a delirious master assassin. “What is wrong?”

He’d almost given up on getting an answer when Altair slowly, painfully slowly, lifted his face to him and opened his eyes.

Oh.

_Oh._

_* * *_

 

_“Am I a sorcerer? Or some kind of demon?”_

_Malik stopped in his examination of Altair’s retinas, surprised and amused by the question. “Why would you think that?” He huffed a little chuckle despite himself._

_Altair sighed, sounding both parts relieved and exhausted. “I guess I don’t know. It isn’t really against any part of our creed, is it? Sorcery?”_

_Malik thought it over. “I don’t think it’s sorcery, and I don’t think you’re a demon. For one, a demon wouldn’t be such a baby about this whole thing.” It was presented as sarcasm, but he wasn’t really joking. He didn’t know how he really felt about the uptight little fucker right now, but the familiar annoyance was always right there at the tip of his tongue like an old friend._

_“You’re so clever.” Altair snapped sarcastically, and fiddled with the straps of his hidden blade, tailor made to fit a child’s slender limbs. And it was just nonsense that he had gotten one as a novice when Malik hadn’t. “So… what does it look like? When I use it?”_

_After a moment’s consideration, he replied with some uncertainty, “Remember that time when we were taken outside that night to look for hares, and our blademaster was there with us, carrying that big torch?”_

_Altair nodded, looking unsure where he was going with this. “Sure.”_

_“And that big wolf walked across the path in front of us, and stopped and looked at us?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Remember how the light hit his eyes? That green shimmer they got?”_

_“…Yes?”_

_“It looks like that, I guess. The little black part of your eye gets all big and kind of gleams a gold color, but it is lit up on its own, without firelight.” He tried, scooting closer to look. “I don’t think it’s sorcery, not unless that wolf was a sorcerer too. Maybe its something you can get from your parents? Like-“ he struggled, “like your eye color and the shape of your face and stuff? Maybe your father had it.”_

_He instantly regretted bringing up Umar, but Altair didn’t react. He changed the subject anyway. “It lets you see things that you can’t otherwise?”_

_Altair hesitated. “Kind of.”_

 

_* * *_

 

Altair’s pupils were blown wide, too far to see the natural amber of his iris, taking it up almost entirely with a bright glow, like two tiny suns swinging around to consider him. He still had a hand pressed to his temple, and he his whole body wracked with shivers of discomfort. He checked his surroundings blearily until he was satisfied that the light was extinguished, and then pushed himself to his feet with a lurching gait.

“What have you done to yourself?” Malik demanded, following him closely in case he collapsed. He watched as the poor idiot swayed on his feet, clipping a shoulder against the wall as he passed through the door into the den. He was fiddling with the straps of his wrist blade, finally tugging them undone and letting it drop to the floor limply with a sharp clink of metal on stone. His sword and belt were discarded just as thoughtlessly.

Malik watched him for a second before wordlessly trailing behind and kicking them toward the foot of his desk. He could clean and service them later, while Altair rested, before the blood could damage the mechanisms.

“Nothing... 's stupid.” Came the curt reply, eyes still squinted not quite shut, a strip of light beaming outward from beneath heavy lids.

“It has never looked like this before." When Altair staggered again, Malik moved closer still, keeping his good side toward him so he could reach out to steady him if necessary."Here, lean against me." 

"Too bright," Altair protested roughly, wrenching his head away and closing his eyes again. He shoved Malik away with surprising strength for the shape he was in.

"What is this nonsense?"

"Blue... too bright. Can see it with my eyes closed. _Burns."_

"Novice-"

“'M not a novice…” he slurred, dropping like a sack of oranges onto the ledge of the fountain. He cupped his hands and began drinking greedily.

 

 * * * 

 

_“You can’t use it when you’re moving?” Malik wrinkled his nose. "Not that useful, then."_

_“I have to sit very still. If I break concentration, throws me back into normal sight, or perception, or... I don't know, but the shift is uncomfortable. But I can... see everything. Feel things, and their importance to me. I can't explain it. It isn't seeing, but it is."_

_“Does it hurt?”_

_“Like when you look at the sun after being indoors all day. A little, not much. It can if I keep use it for more than a few seconds, though. Like a headache, but worse.”_

_“Maybe you should see a physician.”_

_“Hah." Altair shot him with a wry look, only barely visible by the moonlight through the small inset window. "Nice try.”_

_Silence._

_“How long…”  A helpless wave of hands._

_“A while. At first, I could only see red coming down the hall. Not really red, but that’s as close as I can get to explaining how it feels. I felt something red coming toward me. I knew it wasn’t coming to do anything good.”_

_“When was this?”_

_A reply, cold, as if speaking of the events of someone else’s life, “the night Ahmad came to me to die.”_

 

_* * *_

 

“So where have you been all this time?” Malik tried not to sound like a mother hen, but really. This was his job, after all.

Altair had finished sucking down as much water as he could, and propped himself up against the wall, eyes closed, panting slightly. “Went to investigate… thought he was a Templar. His house was like a fortress. But I got in,” he waggled a finger with a strange grin, and Malik wondered briefly if he had taken something mind-altering to alleviate his headache. “I didn’t realize he had so many. So many guards,” he clarified, pushing his hood back onto his shoulders, his weird little smirk fading into a grimace as the motion jostled the delicate equilibrium in his head. “They weren't there when I went in. Then they all showed up together. Had to hide. Got stuck up in rafters… too many guards. Couldn’t fight them all.”

Altair trailed off here, catching his breath. Malik thought he might have fallen asleep, but he sucked in a gulp of air suddenly and continued. “I couldn’t see much more than this one hallway. If I came down someone would notice, and I didn't want to risk fighting my way out, but there was nowhere else to go. I used my… my extra sense. Whatever you called it,” he waved a hand.

When they were children, Malik had called it Eagle Sight. Altair had tried to explain that it wasn’t really sight, but more like another sense entirely. Malik insisted Eagle Sense sounded much better anyway, but instead of reminding him of a name that now sounded silly, he waited for Altair to continue.

“After about nine hours I gave up on finding a break in the guard patrol. Kept checking through the walls, but there were always too many, even for me. Left my sight on, hoping that I’d spot something I could use. I was up there for a few days. Finally just dropped down on someone's head, made a big loud mess. His guards were,” he was rubbing his eyes again, which were glowing _through his eyelids,_ “very well trained.”

 

 * * * 

 

_“Because you would not heed my warnings! All of this could have been avoided!” He’d screamed, rage bubbling through his veins like molten lead, but Altair kept his eyes on their mentor, as though Malik was inconsequential, perhaps._

_While Al Mualim spoke, chastising and cold, and Malik clutched his bloodied and ruined limb, Altair finally snuck a glance his direction. He recognized a moment later the flash that illuminated his eyes for just a moment when he caught his gaze._

_Altair’s eyes widened a fraction when he realized what he’d just done, reminded someone of a secret, someone who now had every reason in the whole world to use that secret to destroy him. Malik grinned wildly for just a second, also having this realization for himself._

_“Mentor,” he began, and opened his mouth to say more but stopped, jaw snapping shut._

_“Yes?” Al Mualim, ever larger than life, turned his oppressive attention to the pupil he was less disappointed in._

_Malik prepared himself once more to lay out all his damning evidence, to annihilate that self-centered monster from their ranks. But he peeked at his new sworn enemy again from the corner of his eye. He didn’t fail to catch the sudden crippling terror Altair was hiding very well. Malik knew him well enough to read his body language, at least. He had a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his sword, a bad habit he'd gotten into as a novice that he'd never really shaken. He had gone still as stone, back straight, his eyes locked on something a few inches to the right of his face._

_Suddenly, everything felt wrong. It all crashed down on him at once: his brother, his arm, his freedom, this..._

_He felt bile crawl up his throat even as exhaustion dragged his body down like lead._

_“…I need my wound tended to; I will head down to the doctor.” He stared at the floor. His skin crawled._

_Suspicious, but not that interested, their mentor waved a hand. “Yes, I will have a novice escort you.”_

 

_* * *_

 

_“Why?” His voice was quiet and even._

_"Why what,_  novice?" _Malik bit out.The fortress was winding down from a long day, between the news of the fall of the Mentor’s favored protégé to the attack on the village, it felt like a nightmare from start to finish. He was propped up on a cot, wrapped heavily in bandages lightheaded from pain and blood loss. He really did not want to deal with this._

_Altair ignored the dig, but it must have struck home, because he paused for just a microsecond too long to be natural.“Why didn’t you tell him? It would have been easy.”_

_Malik momentarily doubted that Al Mualim would have believed him. An accusation of sorcery against Altair was hardly a novel concept; many jealous assassins living in Masyaf had thrown it at him like a lance, hoping to strike something that would bring the "flying one" back down to the dirt with the rest of the mortals. Ironically, they had been correct. Even further, they had gotten their wish._

_He didn’t hesitate to reply, not even bothering to look up. “When you fall for good this time, I want it to be for your own bullheaded actions, not because you’re some kind of disgusting aberration.” A sneer entered his tone, but when he turned to see the damage he had done with his words, Altair was gone._

_* * *_

 

“You shifted your sight for _three whole days_?” Malik asked incredulously.

“I might have overreached.”

“You might have-" He ran an exasperated hand through his hair, a little peeved that he only had the one hand to that with. "Yes, you might have! You stupid, brainless...! You thoughtless novice!” He would have thrown something if Altair looked at all like he would be able to dodge it right now. He was turning his head away with a screwed up expression, pulling away from him just slightly. Malik only just then realized he'd been shouting. He felt his frustration evaporate. “Come on, on your feet.”

“I don’t want to,” Altair sounded a bit like a whiny child, which made Malik feel less sorry for him.

“Well, isn’t this just a problem now, mentor? Get. Up.” He kicked his outstretched leg, without much force but too hard to be ignored. “You’re getting blood everywhere. It's hard to scrub out of the floors with one arm, and you’re going to frighten the novices.”

That got him a snort. Finally, a sign of life. Altair allowed himself to be dragged to his feet, leaning heavily on Malik’s good arm as he was dragged to one of the small bunks kept behind the counter for recovering Assassins. He didn't answer until his unsteady legs would support any of his weight. It took a few tries. “There's no one else here, except the pigeons. The novices are not pigeons.” He declared, as if he were breaking some new ground. Malik tugged him in the direction of the cots. “They're _assassins._ They’re going to see a lot worse than this.”

“Worse than the Eagle of Masyaf covered in the blood of thirty men, whose eyes could _literally_ light up a room?” Malik manhandled him onto the bunk, before turning away to fetch a bowl of water and some linens to clean and bandage what was looking to be some pretty nasty wounds. As if whatever he'd done to his brain or eyes by overusing his second sight wasn't enough, he had to go and lose all of that blood. “Your wisdom is a blessing to this order.”

Altair actually laughed out loud, throwing his head back a little, which brought him up short. “I meant to ask… did you take something?”

“The medicine you had behind the counter, I usually bring some with me on missions. It can be useful, usually on someone else.” He swayed again, tiring quickly. “Helped a little. Not much.”

 _So he's out of his mind, then, on_...  It took him a minute to remember the word that Altair had announced to him proudly after a particularly long week spent in his study with that damned artifact. 

_Painkillers._

"Rest, novice." He commanded, but his voice was lowered, maybe a little more gentle than it had been a few minutes ago. "I'll have some things waiting for you in the morning. You're paying me for them, by the way, including the medicine. I don't give things out for free, not even to the mentor." He left the room without waiting for a reply. "And next time, just ask."

Altair was high as a cloud. Malik had assumed as much; he was never this chatty. He wondered how much of the drug Altair had taken. The man had always had some odd reactions to substances, as had his father before him, according to the old fort physician. It could take a lot of certain medicines to take effect, or very little of others to have unusual and extreme reactions. It was almost as if he was of a different species, and damn it all, maybe he  _was._

Malik had once seen the idiot take a sword all the way through his shoulder without complaint, only to yank it out again and use it to take down five more men. It had ended the fight, and he'd passed out promptly afterward from blood loss, but it was the talk of the fort for weeks after. The man had the pain tolerance of a rampaging bull, so to be brought low by  _this..._ For Altair to show weakness this way, to seek out substances that dulled his reactions and made him vulnerable, to  _still_ be completely crippled by it after having taken what had to have been a pretty high dosage... It took more effort than it should have to shake off the mental image of the mentor, who was not yet thirty and younger than Kadar would have been, and smaller in stature than most of the men his age, clinging to a beam high above a room full of guards, a room full of _red,_  pained and sleep-deprived and desperate for an opening that would not come.

When Malik came back with the items he had sought, as well as a bowl of cold soup and bread balanced carefully on a tray, Altair was looking up, eyes still lit and swirling hypnotically with gold light. It was eerie. "Let's hope this doesn't last more than a few days," he quipped. "It'll be hard to explain this to our brothers." 

It was as if he hadn't spoken. Altair didn't even react to his return for a few seconds before he sluggishly brought his head back around to regard him. His eyes took longer still to focus, but then he locked his gaze and held it, suddenly very solemn. “I never thanked you,” Altair said quietly. When he blinked, the room seemed to dim momentarily before his eyes opened again.

Bewildered, Malik set the tray down and wet the towel, getting to work on the injuries. “Story of your life, mentor. But for what, this time?”

“For not telling.” This time, the corner of his mouth quirked up with childish mischief. By the tenets, he was stoned.

Malik stilled, and they shared a strangely companionable silence for a moment before he replied, having suddenly realized how _comfortable_ the atmosphere had gotten. 

“Yes, well." He sniffed. "Sometimes we make promises we keep."


End file.
